


For I Was An Earthly Knight

by seimaisin



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-12
Updated: 2008-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Jon Walker's great-grandmother told him tales of faerie lords and human knights. He never thought they'd be this relevant to his adult life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For I Was An Earthly Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2008 [bandombigbang](http://community.livejournal.com/bandombigbang). View [fanart and fanmix here](http://seimaisin.livejournal.com/1730166.html).

“Once upon a time …”

(Jon’s great-grandmother’s stories always began, “Once upon a time…” But, even at the ripe old age of seven, he’d learned to recognize the look in her eye when she was about to tell her favorite story of all. There were other stories that Jon preferred, stories that had dragons and swords and brave warriors, but he enjoyed the happy look on Gran’s face enough to sit down and pay attention every time she began the telling. Her favorite story went something like this: )

“Once upon a time, there was a farmer who lived with his family on land owned by a faerie lord. Now, the fae can be a horrible, untrustworthy lot, always playing pranks and getting humans into trouble, but this particular faerie lord was a good soul who treated this farmer well. He never asked for more tax money than the farmer could afford, and he provided men to protect the farmer’s land when thieves rode through. The farmer became so loyal to the faerie lord that he wished to pledge his life to the lord’s service.”

“Now, Jon,” she’d always say at this point, chucking Jon under the chin with a bent finger, “pledging your life to a faerie lord isn’t something anyone ever does lightly! Because once a man makes the pledge, his soul belongs to that fae, no matter what. And there are a lot of fae you wouldn’t want to trust with your soul. Most of them, in fact. But this fae, he was worthy, so the farmer asked if they could speak the words of binding.”

(“Say it, Gran!” Jon would say here. He liked the way her voice sounded when she said it, deep and rich and important.)

“’By wind and fire, earth and sea, I ask you pledge your life to me,’ the faerie lord said. And the farmer responded, ‘Ocean and flame, land and sky, I swear my oath until I die.’ Once the words were spoken, the lord looked at the farmer. ‘I must leave to take care of my other lands. We will finish the binding when I return.’ And so, the lord left during the summer, and the farmer continued to mind his land and his family.

“But, the faerie lord did not return in the summer, or the fall. These were hard seasons for the farmer; his crops did not fare well, and his family had little to eat. One day during the harvest, the farmer went to town to attempt to sell what little he could, hoping to earn some money to buy food they did not have. As he stood in the market, watching all the people passing him by, he suddenly noticed a man drop a billfold on the ground, right in front of him. The man walked away without turning around. The farmer picked up the billfold – inside was enough money to keep his family fed for the entire winter. The man had noticed nothing, he thought, it might be easy to just keep the money. After all, didn’t he have a need for it? But he thought of the man – what if that man had a family to feed, too? And even if he didn’t, this money was probably rightfully earned, and the farmer didn’t have any right to it at all. So, he ran through the town until he found the man, and returned his billfold. The man was very grateful, and gave the farmer a small reward – enough to buy a small amount of food, for which the farmer was thankful. Small bounties honestly earned, he thought, were better than large ones ill gotten.

“Winter came, and still the faerie lord did not return. One cold, cold night, the farmer answered a knock on his door to find a man shivering on his doorstep. His clothes were fine; he was obviously a much richer man than the farmer. But, he said, he was lost, and could not find his way back to his chosen path in the dark. Could the farmer shelter him for the night? When the nobleman looked at the meager fare on the farmer’s table, he told the family that he did not require food, just a roof over his head. The farmer bade him to stay, without hesitation, and told him to sit at the table. As long as he was a guest, the nobleman would have food to eat. There wasn’t much to go around, but everyone ate. In the morning, the nobleman left them a few gold coins, not a lot, but enough to ensure that they would not starve.

“Spring came, and the faerie lord did not return. Tales began to reach the farmer of a wolf in the woods, killing cattle and sheep and dogs. Everyone lived in fear; families stayed inside and the planting season suffered. Finally, the farmer took it upon himself to go to the woods to slay the wolf. He had no experience fighting dangerous animals, and his wife and children despaired. But, he told them, he refused to cower inside while people he cared about were in danger. So, he took his sword and headed to the woods. He was scared, but he knew what had to be done.

“When he found the wolf, he nearly ran away, because it was as big as a man, with teeth the size of daggers. The wolf growled at the farmer, advancing forward and snapping its jaw with force that could take the farmer’s head off, if he got too close.”

(This was always Jon’s favorite part. “Tell me about the wolf, Gran! How big was it?” Gran would always laugh and pat his head, “The wolf isn’t the point of the story, love. Pay attention.”)

“The farmer knew he was outmatched, but he held his sword in front of him and said a silent prayer. The wolf lunged for him, and he lunged forward with the sword – time stopped for him, just for a moment, but when he came back to himself he realized that the wolf was dead on the ground, its throat slashed. His sword dripped with blood. He’d killed it, he’d actually done it.

“’You are a worthy man,’ came a voice from behind the farmer. He turned to find the faerie lord standing next to a tree. ‘You passed the three tests – honor, selflessness, and courage. I am proud to name you knight, and you and your family will be under my protection for as long as you all shall live.’ Thus, the knight took the farmer and his family to live with him Underhill, where all the faeries live, and they all lived happily ever after.”

Jon liked the idea of being a knight. Knights were cool, they got to fight bad guys and rescue girls and be the heroes! He had a plastic sword – okay, it was a He-Man sword, which was kind of lame, but it did the job – and he spent many hours twirling in his backyard, sword above his head, practicing the knight’s oath. “Ocean and flame, land and sky, I swear my oath until I die. Ocean and flame, land and sky, I swear my oath until I die. Ocean and flame, land and sky, I swear my oath until I die.” He could imagine the crowds surrounding him, cheering his victory over the dragon, or the evil wizard, or the monster masquerading as the mean old man down the street. Someday, he knew, he’d get his chance to be the hero.

The last time Jon ever saw his Gran, she was in a nursing home, her skin as gray as the walls in the lifeless room. During a still moment, she pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear. “I had the Sight, once. I used to be able to see faeries. Keep your eyes open, Jonny boy, you have the look about you. You might see them one day.” Then, she started coughing, a deep hacking sound, and Jon’s mother hurried him out of the room.

The next time he saw her, she was lying peacefully in a casket. Jon climbed up onto the kneeler next to the casket and placed a flower on her chest. He secretly believed that the faeries had come to take her Underhill, where she’d be young and happy forever and ever.

***

Years passed, and Jon forgot about the faeries. He discovered music, which was magic enough for him.

***

“Seriously, do they breed them like you guys in Vegas?” Jon laughed and poked Spencer in the arm. “Because I thought you were the normal one, but sometimes, I wonder. Especially with your fashion sense.” Jon looked over at Spencer’s t-shirt – white, with an intricate gold flame and shield design painted across his chest, obviously purchased from the girl’s section of some department store.

Spencer smiled, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. Jon noticed. Jon noticed a lot of things about Spencer Smith, and about the rest of his band. “Those are some weird kids, aren’t they,” he’d said to Tom, one of the first nights of the tour, as they sat on top of the tour bus, passing a joint between them. Tom had just frowned and said, “No weirder than anyone else around here, trust me.” Tom was like that sometimes, like he had a secret he wouldn’t share with Jon. It was irritating, but not enough to call Tom on, not when they had a nice breeze and moonlight and calming smoke.

“What are we like, Jon?” Spencer squinted into the sunlight, shading his eyes to look out at the blacktop in front of them. Jon enjoyed touring in the south and west during the winter months – it was nice, to be able to stand outside and not feel like his important bits were going to freeze off. Only buses and trucks littered their vision, the muffled sounds of the tour distant, musicians and roadies and fans in line in front of the venue. When Jon didn’t answer right away, Spencer bumped his shoulder against Jon’s. “What are we like?” he repeated.

Jon thought for a moment more. “Hard to pin down,” he finally settled on. “Every time I think I’ve got one of you figured out, you mess with my head.”

It was true. Jon had met Ryan Ross two days into the tour; he’d come across a skinny kid in the green room of a club in the middle of the Midwest and figured he knew exactly what he was getting. Scene kid, with a defiant slant to his mouth, desperate to prove himself. He’d known a dozen like Ryan, even counted some of them as his best friends. He knew what he was getting into. But once he started hanging out with Ryan, Jon would catch a look out of the corner of his eye, an expression of wonder and concentration on Ryan’s face that might have the power to take Jon’s breath away, if he ever caught it full on. Every time he turned to look, however, Ryan’s face was schooled in that impassive stare that made everyone else roll their eyes behind his back.

Brendon Urie was also straightforward, Jon thought. Lead singers usually were. Give them enough attention, they stay content. It was a simple enough formula, one he was prepared to employ with the enthusiastic boy who suddenly hung off of Jon’s shoulders like a lemur. But sometimes, Jon would catch Brendon alone, sitting at a piano or holding a guitar, and the sound of the notes drifting from the instruments would catch in Jon’s chest and make him want to drop to his knees. In those moments, Brendon’s entire body was still in a way it never was at any other time, except for the hands creating the notes. A moment later, Jon would exhale too loudly, or he’d blink, and suddenly Brendon moved again, vibrating with energy, and the knot in Jon’s chest was gone as if it never existed.

The bass player, Brent, was something of a mystery from the start. Jon didn’t actually notice him until five dates into the tour; when he ran into Brent after the show, he thought the kid was just a fan until he pulled out a key to Panic’s bus and disappeared inside. After that, Jon got the weird impression that Brent was hiding from someone. Jon caught glimpses of him from far away – Brent always seemed to be walking away, away from the venue, away from the bus – but any time Brent noticed that Jon was looking at him, he’d disappear. Jon would look away, just for a second, and the when he looked up, Brent would be gone. Odd kid, Jon thought.

Spencer, Jon thought at first, was the only member of Panic! at the Disco that seemed normal. If normal even existed on the road, which Jon doubted most of the time. But Spencer was just a guy, a drummer and a kid, smart and funny and a little bit weird in the way of musicians. He laughed when Jon made faces at him from off-stage, and he held enthusiastic debates about famous drummers with Butcher. If Jon felt a little twist in his belly when he saw Spencer smile, well, Jon had come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t entirely straight a while ago. Being attracted to a good-looking guy was nothing out of the ordinary.

But, today, Jon wasn’t so sure about Spencer. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but walking through the venue with him, he felt this stillness, the feeling that the universe had suddenly hit the pause button. Jon was almost used to it. He felt it a lot on this tour – not just with the Panic boys, but with the Academy guys, too. A time or two, he’d looked at William, taking up the entire couch at the back of the bus in a loose-limbed sprawl that would suggest sex to a nun, and suddenly wondered where all the air in the room had disappeared to. At first, he thought it meant he was attracted to William, a thought that had sent him into a brief panic - he’d known William long enough to know how much of a truly bad idea that would be. But, then, he’d gotten the same feeling from Siska, who was most definitely slotted firmly into the ‘baby brother’ box, no sex involved, so Jon had dismissed the whole thing as a product of no sleep and too much booze.

“Everyone messes with your head,” Spencer said, and Jon had to mentally scramble to find the conversation thread again. “In our world, everyone’s looking for the advantage.”

Spencer, Jon thought, had learned a lot about the music business really quickly. His eyes seemed older, much older than his teenaged years, for a long moment, until Spencer smiled a smile that finally reached his eyes. “You don’t, though,” he said, his eyes meeting Jon’s. “Not when it matters. I like that about you. You’re one of the few people I know who doesn’t want something.”

“I want plenty,” Jon protested. “Right now, I want a goddamned beer, but Butcher drank the last one this morning. Asshole.”

Spencer laughed. Jon felt a smile spread across his own face – Spencer’s laugh was contagious.

Jon and Spencer paced the back parking lot of the club. The local crew hurried around them; Jon smiled at people he recognized as he listened to Spencer talk about the plot of the absurd fantasy novel he’d picked up at the last truck stop. “And then, the banshee was male, which I know comes from some sort of stupid role-playing game, but I wish the author had done some actual research, because banshees are actually all female …”

Jon opened his mouth to tease Spencer about his geek tendencies, but when he turned his head towards the side of the building, he saw a girl heading towards them. She didn’t wear a venue pass, which was his first clue that something was wrong. Her blonde hair was swept up into a severe ponytail, and her mouth was set in a grim line as she made a beeline for Spencer. A fan, Jon thought immediately, the same kind of girl who had tried to hide on Panic’s bus in Texas. That one had been discovered hiding in Brendon’s bunk, her face pressed into his sheets as if she could surround herself with them and become invisible. This one, though, might be looking to do damage to Spencer, judging by the hard set of her jaw. When she spoke, though, it made no sense to him. “You don’t belong here,” she said, pointing at Spencer. “This isn’t your place. It’s our world, not yours!”

Jon took a brief moment to glance at Spencer, whose face had lost all expression. Jon saw the girl move, however, and turned back to her. He closed the distance between them and put a hand on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be back here,” he said, trying for a gentle tone. “You need to go back out front.”

“I’m not the one who doesn’t belong here,” she repeated, staring over Jon’s shoulder at Spencer. She wasn’t as young as Jon originally thought - he upped his estimation of her age from mid-teens to mid-twenties, with a scar on the side of her face, a velvet ribbon in her hair, and fire in her eyes, all heat directed towards Spencer.

Spencer was quiet, but he also didn’t head for the door to the venue, like Jon thought he might (and should). Jon could feel the weight of his stare in the back of his head, knew that Spencer was watching them. Jon stepped forward again, forcing the girl – woman – to step backwards to avoid getting shoved. “Go, now. Before I call security.”

“He’s going to bring ruin. They all do. They always do.”

 _Bring ruin_? Jon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling; who said that kind of thing, anyway? He stepped forward again, and the woman moved backward reluctantly. “Seriously, lady, go home. You can’t …”

“No, you can’t,” she interrupted. “You have no idea, do you? You should leave now, too, before it’s too late.”

“Before what’s too late?” Jon asked, despite himself. _Quit engaging the crazy_ , he mentally smacked himself.

“Before you end up like me.” She grabbed Jon’s shoulder and looked him square in the eye. For a moment, he felt that stillness, that strange feeling of being somewhere that wasn’t right. Then the woman stepped backwards, out of his reach. “If you knew what was good, you’d let me take care of him.”

That snapped Jon back to reality. “Seriously, lady, I’m going to call the cops. Get the fuck out of here.”

He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone, but by the time he pulled it out, she’d turned and run towards the crowd in front of the building. Jon stared at his phone for a minute, but then closed it and put it away reluctantly. What would he say to the police, anyway? That some random crazy girl was making vague threats? He’d just have to tell venue security to keep an extra eye out that night.

Jon turned back to Spencer. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice light, “I thought William had some crazy-ass fans, but apparently you guys take the cake.”

Spencer’s face was still blank. He made a low humming sound before his eyes flicked over to Jon’s face. After a moment, his expression returned. “I’ve seen her before,” he said. “She has … an old problem.”

“Jesus, really? Your first tour, and you already have crazy stalker fans?” Jon shook his head. “You guys should have a restraining order on her, maybe, or at least give her description to venue security every night.”

“It’s fine. She doesn’t really cause trouble. Just headaches, every once in a while.” A small smile spread across Spencer’s face. “Jon Walker, my hero,” he said teasingly.

Jon laughed. “Hey, man, it’s all part of the service. Guitars serviced, photos taken, insane fans chased away.” He punched Spencer in the arm playfully. “Maybe you should start paying me.”

Spencer chuckled. He touched Jon’s face. Jon felt his brows furrow – it felt like a lover’s caress, and what the hell was that? The skin underneath Spencer’s fingertips seemed to hum; Jon fought the urge to clap his hand to his cheek, as if he was burned. Spencer was smiling, as if at a private joke, when he said under his breath, “By wind and fire, earth and sea, I ask you pledge your life to me.”

Jon blinked. He’d heard that before, where had he heard that before? After a moment, he remembered his Gran’s voice completing the fairy tale verse. “Ocean and flame, land and sky, I swear my oath until I die.” He didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until he saw Spencer react.

Spencer’s eyes widened, until they seemed to take up half of his face. All the white disappeared until there was nothing left but blue and black and suddenly the air around them was still and stifling. Jon drew in a shallow breath and felt a pressure in his head that made his vision swim. “Fuck,” he heard Spencer say, and Jon wanted to laugh, because the obscenity was so common. Why would he think that? It had to be the heat or something, because he felt like he was going to faint. Maybe he hadn’t had enough water, or maybe the scene with the girl had made him more tense than he realized, or …

As Jon slid into unconsciousness, his last sight was of the strange emblem on Spencer’s shirt. It glowed, burned into the backs of his eyelids as they fluttered shut.

***

Jon’s job as guitar tech was casual – he’d mostly been asked along as a photographer – so he felt perfectly justified in leaning against a wall and watching Panic’s set from backstage while everyone else hustled around him. His head still throbbed from his random moment of weakness. “You passed out, dude,” Spencer said when Jon came to. He pressed a bottle of water into Jon’s hand. “Like some Victorian maiden!” Jon had managed a weak laugh. Spencer’s joke hadn’t quite made it to his eyes, and Jon wondered exactly how bad he’d looked when he fainted.

He liked watching these kids – they had a sense of drama that a lot of bands on the scene didn’t. Jon chuckled to himself – “kids”, he thought, as if they were more than a year or two younger than him. But they did seem like kids, especially when he and William first watched them go through sound check, before the first show of the tour. “They don’t know what it’s like up here in the world,” William said dismissively. “They’ve been so sheltered.”

“Up here in the world?” Jon repeated, laughing. “Has Las Vegas become actual hell sometime when I wasn’t looking?”

William had looked at him for a moment before letting a sly smile cross his face. “Yeah, Vegas. If you don’t think that’s hell, you haven’t spent enough time there.”

The show continued, and Jon’s attention drifted to the front of the stage, where Brendon held court as some kind of small, demented ringleader, all grand gestures and wide-eyed stares. Ryan moved more cautiously, but with passion contained in his small motion, enough to match his singer in an odd way. Jon watched Brent for a few moments – on stage was one of the few times he could catch Brent, without the bassist skittering off to parts unknown. He seemed to be more grounded than either Brendon or Ryan – as did Spencer, though Spencer’s calm was a completely different sort than Brent’s.

Energy seemed to flow off the stage. Jon could see it rising, like heat waves. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. Brendon stood at the edge of the stage nearest to Jon, reaching out to the audience during a break in the vocals. When he began singing again, he stepped back and zipped to the other side of the stage, but Jon could see a shadow where he had been, a red-gold glow that lingered in the shape of Brendon’s outstretched arm for a split second. Jon thought he’d imagined it when it disappeared, but then he noticed the glow following Brendon, trailing in his wake like smoke in the shape of a boy. Brendon passed behind Ryan, and for a moment, his glowing trail intersected with another, more sedentary glow, this one darker, almost violet in color. The gold swirled away as Brendon returned to center stage, but Jon’s attention remained on the violet color. Ryan stepped to his microphone to join the vocals, and the dark color retained Ryan’s shape, thin limbs and hair and guitar, just long enough for Jon to feel like he was seeing double, before dissolving back into Ryan’s actual body.

Across the stage, Brent stood in place, concentrating more of his bass than on the audience. Jon saw a deep green puff rising from Brent’s hand as he played, wrapping tendrils around the neck of the guitar and disappearing back into Brent’s body where the body of the bass rested against his hip. When Brendon walked to his side of the stage, gold approached green, but instead of mixing, Brent’s colorful shadow retreated back against his body. Brendon’s trail quickly changed directions and stretched out towards the audience instead.

Jon closed his eyes against the glow, which seemed to swirl inside his head and mess up his vision. Obviously he was still recovering from whatever had happened earlier. Maybe he’d hit his head? Maybe he should ask a local crew member to point him towards the local free clinic, see if someone could prescribe him some heavy duty ibuprofen or something.

When he opened his eyes, he turned his attention back to Spencer. Which was a mistake. Spencer’s arms moved in a blur, sticks steady on the drums, keeping a beat that thrummed inside Jon’s head. With every movement, an ice-blue glow rose from his skin like a heat image, shivering and shimmering and disappearing into puffs of nothingness around Spencer’s head. The faster Spencer moved, the more the blue shimmers danced, in a way that seemed to caress Spencer’s skin before combining with each other and drifting into the air. Spencer’s eyes were closed as he played, and some of the blue shimmers seemed to seep behind his eyelids, so that Jon half-believed he’d see Spencer’s eyes glow when he opened them. Jon’s stomach roiled as his eyes attempted to follow the loops and curls of blue heat. The motion made him feel like he was on a roller coaster, waiting for the last curve but ready for the ride to be over.

Brendon moved back to the drum kit when Ryan began playing a solo, and suddenly sweeping gold light mingled with ice-blue shimmer, lights dancing with each other and combining into colors that Jon couldn’t describe and didn’t think existed in nature. A moment later, Ryan stepped back, and Brendon began to step forward again, but for a moment all three of them were close enough that their colors met in the middle of the stage, gold and violet and blue. Colors that shouldn’t complement each other did, somehow, in a large swirl that looked like a moving modern painting, color and light and somehow a sense of heat – Jon felt sweat dripping down his forehead, felt his brain pressing against the backs of his eyes, but couldn’t look away. The colors were so beautiful, but the dryness in his mouth felt more like fear.

When Brendon and Ryan moved back to the front of the stage, their colors moved with them, leaving Jon staring at Spencer and his blue aura. As the song ended, Spencer glanced in Jon’s direction. Jon didn’t know what he saw – couldn’t tell what kind of expression he had on his own face – but Spencer’s eyes narrowed, and the blue swirls shot up higher than his head, higher than the stacks of amps. It looked like blue fire, as if it should be burning Spencer alive. But, yet, Spencer sat calmly in the middle of it, staring at Jon with eyes that looked so normal and human, but colder than Jon had thought possible.

Jon didn’t realize he’d moved until he was vomiting into the trash can next to the stage. When he was done, he leaned his forehead on the wall next to him, unwilling to look back up at the stage. He simply crouched there and listened to the music until he stopped seeing waves of color behind his eyes.

***

The guys teased Jon for the rest of the night – Mike asked him if he’d stopped being able to handle his liquor, while Tom told him he should go back to Chicago and college if the road was that hard on him now – but Jon didn’t mind. Whatever was making him hallucinate, he was just ready to sleep it off and forget it.

At the end of the night, he stood in the parking lot, taking one last drag off of a cigarette before getting on the bus. As he exhaled smoke towards the parking lot, he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Jon. Hey, Jon.”

Jon ignored the flip of his stomach at the sound of Spencer’s voice. He hummed a noncommittal greeting and turned around. Spencer was dressed in the same t-shirt from earlier in the day, with the strange gold shield – Jon inexplicably shivered at the sight. When Spencer didn’t speak right away, Jon waved a hand at him. “We gotta get on the road. Texas has a lot of fucking miles to cover.”

“Jon.” Spencer stopped, shifted his weight from one leg to another, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “What did you see earlier?”

Jon flicked his cigarette away and shoved his hand in his pocket. “What?”

“When you got sick. What did you see?”

“What did I see?” Jon repeated, frowning. “Um, you guys, until my body decided it liked the Big Mac enough to taste it twice.”

Spencer stared at him. Jon met his gaze; an effort, because everything in his brain screamed at him to turn around and walk away. The air seemed to still around them. For a moment, Jon felt like they were in a bubble, like they were only two people in the world. He opened his mouth to snap at Spencer, to make a joke or just tell him to fuck off, but he couldn’t make his chest form the sounds.

After what seemed like an hour, Spencer looked away; he stared at the side of the bus with the same intensity, but at least he was no longer looking at Jon. “Good,” he murmured, low enough that Jon was fairly sure he wasn’t meant to hear. “Are you feeling better?” he asked in a louder voice.

Jon shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll be fine, just need some sleep.”

Spencer nodded. “Right. I’ll let you go, then.” He took a step backwards, and Jon finally felt the breeze on his cheek again. “Good night, Jon.”

Jon waved a response. From somewhere above him, inside the bus, he could hear Butcher cackling loudly. He stared up at the window when he heard Mike and Tom shouting, presumably at the television. When he looked back down, Spencer was already gone.

***

The next morning, Jon woke up on the couch in the lounge with William standing over him. “You alive, Jonny Walker?”

Jon moved his head experimentally. “Yep,” he said, “preliminary tests are promising.”

“Good.” William stared at him for another long minute. “You need to stay away from those Panic children, they’re bad news.”

Jon laughed. It didn’t hurt his head, which was another good sign. “Like you have room to talk, Bill.”

“I have only your best interests in mind,” William sniffed. “Your best interests just happen to be mine, too.”

“Uh-huh.” Jon sat up. “Are we … wherever we were going?”

“Almost. Early sound check today, you’d better be ready to actually work today, asshole.” William flounced off towards the front of the bus. An emerald-green light trail followed behind him like a cape. Jon blinked. The green didn’t disappear, not until Bill was long in the kitchen, at which point it dissolved into the bunks.

“Jon.”

Jon looked over at the sound. Tom sat on the floor across from him, stretched out, with a guitar in his hands. He stared at Jon, frowning. Jon shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t see you there, dude.”

“What were you looking at?” Tom asked. He sounded like Spencer had the night before, with the same indecipherable tone.

“Nothing. My head’s still a little messed up, I guess. You have any Advil?”

Tom reached over, grabbed a bottle that lay on the floor and tossed it to Jon. He continued to frown. “I hope the Advil fixes it.”

“It should.” Jon swallowed three pills dry. “If not, I may have to suck it up and find a doctor. I must have hit my head when I fell, or something.”

“Or something,” Tom echoed. He stood up and walked over to the couch, where he sat down next to Jon. “Be careful. Seriously, Jon, some of the people around here …” He trailed off and stared at the floor.

“What?” Jon poked Tom’s legs. “Just spit it out, man.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Tom gave Jon a measuring look, but then shook his head. “I just hope … never mind.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s go raid the kitchen before Mike eats all the Lucky Charms.”

Jon scowled at Tom’s retreating back. At least he wasn’t followed by a colored swirl. That was an improvement.

***

Three days later, everyone decided to talk the drivers and managers into spending their night off at a local Indian casino. Jon hopped off the bus, dressed only in jeans and a t-shirt. He shivered, and then looked over to the thin figure that stood next to the other bus. “Fuck, Ryan, why do you have my hoodie?”

Ryan just shrugged. “You left it at the venue. I was cold.”

Jon stared at Ryan. “Don’t you have your own?”

“Yours is warmer.” Ryan wrapped his arms around himself. The sleeves of Jon’s hoodie didn’t quite reach the ends of his wrists, so he shoved his hands into the opposite sleeves. “Jesus. It was eighty degrees before the sun went down.”

Jon shrugged. “You’re from Las Vegas; you should be ready for this kind of thing. Also, it’s not my fault you’re an unnaturally skinny little shit.”

Ryan flipped him off as Spencer and Brendon emerged from their bus. Brendon stopped and bumped into Jon with his hip. “You gonna win me some money?” he asked, grinning.

“Win your own, motherfucker, I’ve got bills to pay,” Jon said, wrapping an arm around Brendon’s waist.

Spencer, however, didn’t even stop to glance at them; he simply walked towards the casino, where everyone else waited for them. When Jon looked at Ryan, he just raised his eyebrows and shrugged, following Spencer. Jon and Brendon trailed after them.

In the doorway, Ryan shrugged out of the hoodie. “Here, it’s warm enough inside.”

“Oh, thanks.” Jon put it on and smacked Ryan in the arm. “Thanks, asshole.”

“Any time.”

Ryan wandered off towards the slot machines with Mike, while Spencer and Brendon seemed to be distracted by the craps tables. Jon followed Bill and Butcher towards the roulette wheel. Roulette was a sucker’s game, he knew, but it was good for standing around and bullshitting with everyone, which was really all he came to the casino to do.

Jon bought himself fifty dollars worth of chips and started throwing money down on the haphazard pattern he always did – a few chips on his brothers’ birthdays, a few on his parents’ birthdays, a few on random dates and lucky numbers and on the double zero just because he liked it.

When his fifty had turned itself into two hundred dollars, Butcher turned to stare at Jon. “Dude. Did you find a magic genie or something?”

Jon stared at the wheel, which had just stopped on 23, earning him another seventy-five dollars. “I have no idea.”

Tom came over to lean on Jon’s other side. “What the fuck? You always lose all your money in, like, an hour.”

“Apparently it’s my night.” Jon grinned at him.

At four hundred dollars, Jon let out a whoop and pounded the table with his fist. At a warning look from the dealer, he snatched his hand back and stuffed it in his pocket, choosing to sit out the next round instead. Inside his pocket, he felt a strange wad of fabric. He pulled it out and stared at it. Brown fingerless gloves –he recognized them as Ryan’s. Ryan must have shoved them in there when he was wearing the hoodie.

Jon started to shove the gloves back in his pocket – fuck it, he’d give them back to Ryan later, the wheel was spinning to a stop and he had to figure out his bet for the next round – but as he closed his hand around them, he saw a puff of …something drift up from his hand. He nearly dropped the gloves. He glanced around, but no one else had noticed. He looked back down, hoping he’d been seeing things, but no, the violet swirls – the same kind that followed Ryan around everywhere, the ones Jon had been working hard to ignore for days – still curled around his fingers in a pattern that Jon expected to feel sliding along his skin. Still, he felt nothing.

During the next spin, Tom noticed Jon’s fist in his lap and looked down with interest. “What do you have there?”

Jon looked at Tom’s face, but there was no recognition there, just curiosity. “Must be Ryan’s gloves,” he said, in what he hoped was a nonchalant voice. “He was wearing my hoodie earlier.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Weird fucking kid.”

Jon watched the violet swirls fade back into the gloves as he relaxed his grip. “You have no idea.”

He shoved the gloves back into his pocket and reached for his chips, but he kept his fingers in his pocket, touching the gloves, trying to figure out if he could feel the swirls if he wasn’t looking at them. He couldn’t, but as he moved to put his chips onto 17 – his birthday – he suddenly changed his mind. He shoved a pile of chips – more than he’d bet on anything else at one time, more than a hundred dollars – onto 10. Butcher poked him in the arm. “Getting cocky?”

“Just have a feeling.” And he did. He still couldn’t feel anything on his hand, the one still clutching the gloves, but if he concentrated he felt … sure. Confident. It was weird. If he was wrong, well, he was still up a shitload of money.

When the ball landed in the 10 slot, the whole table – not just Tom, Butcher, and Bill – stared at him. Jon stared at the pile of chips the dealer shoved over to him. “Wow. Holy shit.”

Jon saw Ryan across the room, sitting at a slot machine and talking to a pretty waitress. Ryan’s eyes slid in Jon’s direction, and even from the distance, Jon felt a chill. Suddenly, he pulled the gloves out of his pocket and shoved them into Tom’s hand. “Humor me,” he whispered. “Hold these for a minute, and make a bet.”

“What?”

“Just do it, okay?”

Tom rolled his eyes, but did as Jon asked. They both placed chips on different numbers before the wheel spun. When it landed, Jon had lost, and Tom was staring at a pile of chips he didn’t have before. When he looked over at Jon, his eyes were wild. “Fuck no,” he whispered, almost too low for Jon to hear over the crowd. “Take them back, give them back.”

“What?” Jon felt Tom shove the gloves back into his hand.

Tom stood up. He grabbed his chips and bent over to speak in Jon’s ear. “Get rid of them. Get out of here. Seriously, quit playing with this freaky shit. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Tom walked away. Jon looked across the room again – Ryan was still sitting at the slot machine, playing half-heartedly. Jon squeezed the gloves in his hand and looked down. Purple patterns still played across his hand, and seemed to seep into his jeans. Jon was beginning to get used to the colors, after spending a week watching several of the people he knew – Ryan, Spencer, Brendon, William, Siska – walk around with their own rainbow following them. It felt almost normal.

He squeezed the gloves tighter and placed another bet, this time with half of his money. Butcher gaped at him, but nearly lost his mind when Jon won again. “Dude, what the hell? Wanna share some of that shit with the people who are kindly paying you to lounge around our bus?”

Jon looked down again. His hand looked entirely purple in his lap. When he moved his fist, the swirls followed him, making patterns in the air that made Jon’s breath catch in his throat. He thought about the chips in front of him, and the things waiting for him at home – student loans, a bedroom in his parents’ basement, a cobbled-together darkroom and photography studio that could use a lot of new equipment. If the gloves were giving him money … but, man, wasn’t that crazy? That couldn’t be, could it?

He looked at his chips again. Then, he looked across the room, to where Ryan pressed buttons on his slot machine, his face expressionless as usual. He tightened his grip and clapped Butcher on the shoulder. “Hey, dude, watch my chips for me, I’ll be right back.”

Jon ran across the casino floor. When Ryan looked up at him, he shoved the gloves into his hands. “Here, you lost these.”

He could feel Ryan staring at his back, but he ran back to the roulette table before he could change his mind.

Back at the table, Jon shoved half of his chips onto 17. “Here goes nothing,” he told Butcher and Bill, twisting his mouth into a smile.

He endured their good-natured ribbing when he walked out of the casino with twenty dollars to his name. As he passed the slot machines, he saw Spencer sitting next to Ryan, their heads tilted together in quiet conversation. Spencer stared at Jon as he passed, but Jon refused to stop until he was back on his bus.

***

Mike and Butcher were working on the world’s largest beer can tower on their table – “don’t you dare even breathe in our direction, Walker, or we will hunt you down and pull out all your toenails” – so Jon set his Subway bag down across from Spencer instead. Spencer just raised an eyebrow at him. More than a week had passed since the night Jon had first noticed the strange colors, and in that time, Spencer hadn’t spoken more than three words at a time to Jon. The morning after the casino, Spencer had stared at Jon so hard Jon was almost positive he had lingering laser marks in the back of his head, and the blue swirls that followed him around jumped erratically every time Jon glanced in Spencer’s direction.

Once Jon sat down, Spencer went back to the magazine he was reading, still silent. Jon unwrapped his sandwich. “Isn’t it awesome,” he said casually, “to finally be in a venue that has more than a broken futon backstage?” Spencer didn’t look up. Jon continued, “When I was actually in a band, I used to think we’d made it big when we didn’t have to walk through the crowd to get to the stage for our set. You guys have it so easy, man. I’m totally jealous.”

“You should be, Jon Walker,” Brendon said cheerfully from behind him. “We’re going to be the biggest band in the history of the world, and we’ll have, like, the ability to disappear and reappear wherever we want and not have to deal with silly humans ever!”

Brendon sat on Jon’s leg and draped his arm around Jon’s shoulder. Gold tendrils drifted in front of Jon’s face, causing him to see Spencer’s face – still bent over his magazine – in a hazy glow. “I’m hungry, Jon. Your sandwich smells fantastic!”

Jon shoved lightly at Brendon, but not enough to push him off his lap. Brendon was amazingly light for an eighteen-year-old boy. The gold waves that followed him settled around Jon’s neck like an invisible necklace, “Subway is three blocks away. Go get your own.”

Brendon stuck his bottom lip out. Jon grinned. That kid could pout better than any four-year-old he’d ever seen. “There are _girls_ outside, Jon. Girls who want my body. Going outside is a bad idea.”

Spencer snorted. Jon looked over at him, but Brendon was the one who responded. “Fuck you, Smith, they do too want my body!”

“Absolutely, you are a gigantic stud.” Spencer’s voice was drier than the desert air outside. He still didn’t look up from his magazine.

“A gigantic stud who is _wasting away_.” Brendon set his chin on Jon’s shoulder. “So Jon should give me his sandwich, because he’s not wasting away.”

“Hey, are you saying I’m fat?” Jon shoved Brendon again, this time a little harder. Brendon clung to Jon’s neck to avoid falling to the floor.

“No! I’m saying you’re awesomely dude-shaped, and I am not. I need help to look as awesome as you!”

Brendon put his chin back on Jon’s shoulder, fluttering his eyelashes for good measure. Jon felt his stomach rumble, but he found himself grinning at Brendon anyway. “What if you get fat and the girls don’t want your body any more?”

“I would live. Besides, if I looked as good as you the girls would want me even more!”

“You have a silver tongue, Urie.” Jon patted Brendon’s head before reaching over and handing him his sandwich. “Go eat it somewhere else. I don’t want to smell it if I can’t have it.”

Brendon laid a smacking, wet kiss on Jon’s cheek, and the gold following him passed in front of Jon’s eyes, temporarily making Brendon and Spencer both glow, as if they sat in a sunbeam. “You are my favorite, Jon Walker! I love you!” he called over his shoulder as he ran away.

Jon made a rude gesture at the doorway Brendon disappeared through, but he was grinning. When he turned back to the table, Spencer was finally looking at him – staring at him, in fact, with wide blue eyes. He seemed even paler than usual. “Are you okay?” Jon asked.

“You gave him your sandwich.” Spencer closed his magazine without looking at it.

“Yeah, he would have bugged me the entire meal if I didn’t. Besides, he has to go on stage, he probably needs more energy than me.” Jon shrugged. “I can go back to Subway while you guys are on stage.”

“You could have sent him back to the bus to get his own food.”

“It wasn’t a big deal. It made him happy, and I’m not dying of hunger over here.” Jon’s stomach rumbled again, and he chuckled. “Not too much, anyway.”

“You …” Spencer put his hands to his face. As Jon watched, the blue trails that always accompanied Spencer moved independently, even as Spencer’s body stayed still. Jon once again felt that peculiar absence of air, like the table he and Spencer sat at existed in its own separate world. He stopped hearing Butcher laughing in the background, or the bad 80s metal playing over the clubs loudspeakers. Spencer’s blue aura was agitated enough that it shot halfway across the table. Without thinking, Jon reached across and tried to touch it. He still couldn’t feel it, but he watched it curl around his fingers as if it wanted to grab hold of him. He looked away from his hand to see Spencer staring at him, his hands fisted in the blue cloud as if he could physically hold it. For a brief moment, Jon felt something tighten around his hand, like he was trapped by the blue light. Then, Spencer relaxed his fist, and the feeling dissipated.

Jon felt air move around his face again, finally, and he reached up to rub his eyes automatically. When he looked again, Spencer was gone.

***

Jon knew when Pete arrived. It was pretty hard to miss Pete Wentz when he was within ten miles of you – he was all braying laugh and perpetual motion. Also, it was hard to miss him when he leaped onto the bench at the front of the bus and shouted, “Rise and shine, fuckheads, southern California is waiting for you!”

After a brief period of torturing every member of The Academy – and Jon – Pete disappeared to the Panic at the Disco bus. “Gotta keep an eye on the children,” William said, a sneer flitting across his face. William’s tolerance of Panic at the disco was waning. Every night, the crowd for the opening acts grew larger and larger, and William’s green shadows wrapped around him almost violently when he spied people leaving after Panic’s set, which happened more often every night.

As Pete bounced down the stairs of the bus, Jon saw a garish orange trail following him, like the flame detail on the side of a car pimped by that stupidly addicting show on MTV. Jon had become enough acclimated to the randomly appearing colors to be amused by this – of course Pete would have an aura that looked like a cartoon.

Later, inside the venue, Jon finished taking photos of William and Tom skateboarding across the stage – the venue manager came in to yell at them, and Jon waved cheerfully at everyone. “I have to go find someplace to plug my camera battery into,” he said, and left the other two to deal with the consequences. (One of the perks of being the official observer, he thought.) He knew he’d seen an outlet in the green room, so he wandered back in that direction, whistling.

When he walked through the green room door, the room was silent, and five pairs of eyes stared at him: Pete and the entirety of Panic at the Disco. Jon looked around the room. Pete, Ryan, and Brent were unreadable, but the set of Spencer’s jaw told Jon the boy was mad, and Brendon? Well, Brendon just looked scared. Jon blinked. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”

No one spoke for a moment, and then Pete smiled. “Yeah, just a business meeting. Can we have a few minutes?”

Jon shrugged. “Sure, I can go find somewhere else to be.”

Brendon looked at his feet, but Spencer continued to stare at Jon. For some reason, Jon felt like if he could read minds he’d be getting an earful (brainful?) from Spencer at that moment. When Pete cleared his throat, Jon backed out of the room, a sheepish grin on his face. He closed the door, but instead of walking away, he stood next to the door and strained to hear the conversation inside.

It took him a moment to be able to discern words through the door, but when his hearing adjusted, he heard the tail end of a question from Ryan. “… do we go?” His voice was flat – not that Ryan ever had much expression in his voice, but this was frighteningly free of inflection.

“In the time you’re currently using? A week.” Pete paused. “I tried to get her to wait until the end of the tour, but her current … protégé is completely finished.”

“And I’m next in line,” Brendon said, voice bitter. “Or, actually, I’m not, but I’m next on your list, and that’s what counts, isn’t it?” Jon hadn’t thought he was capable of that tone – he’d never heard Brendon sound anything like it. Happy and ridiculous, exhausted and grumpy, sharp and mocking when talking about some of the particularly weird fans who waited for them outside of venues, of course. But this particular tone, the bitterness, made him sound so much older and more jaded than Jon thought possible.

“Enough.” Pete’s voice commanded attention – usually, even his professional voice was casual, as if everything he did business-wise was preceded by “oh, hey, we’re all friends, wouldn’t it be cool if we made money, too?” But, this sounded like a Pete Jon didn’t know. “It is what it is. You play in a week. Everyone will be assembled. You should be prepared.”

“Why Brendon?” Ryan asked.

Pete paused. “Because it has to be someone.”

“And if we refuse?” Spencer, low and calm. “What will she do if we don’t show up?”

“You know that better than I do. You’re not stupid. Don’t act like it.” Pete didn’t quite sound like he was mocking Spencer, but there was an undercurrent there, something sharp.

There was a pause, during which Jon could hear nothing but a few undistinguishable sounds, then he heard Brent’s voice. “Sit down, Spencer. You know …”

“I do.” Spencer interrupted him. “I know what’s coming. I know we’re being sacrificed because Pete wants to keep his own house intact. Don’t think I’ll forget that.”

“Don’t judge me until you’ve been in my shoes, Spencer.” Pete’s statement was matter-of-fact, his tone softer than it had been.

Jon didn’t have time to process the odd statements. He heard shuffling inside the room that might mean they were preparing to leave, which meant he had to get out of sight quickly. He hurried down the hall, to the tiny security office. The man sitting at the desk gave him a surprised look. Jon waved his camera at him. “Need a power outlet. Do you have one I could borrow for a while?”

Jon didn’t see any of them again until Panic was on stage. Pete stood at the side of the stage, watching the show. Jon stood behind Pete and watched for a few songs. Brendon was off, stumbling over words he normally had no problem fitting around his tongue, and Ryan remained completely stationary at his microphone, refusing to look up at the audience. Brent, as usual, played in his own contained world.

Spencer, though … during the songs, Spencer watched Brendon with concern, never missing a beat. In between songs, however, he looked to the side of the stage. He and Pete engaged in a staring contest that made Jon want to slink out of sight, away from either of them; the phrase “out of the line of fire” kept running through his mind.

After three songs, Pete spoke, just loud enough for Jon to hear him. “You have no idea what’s going on, Walker.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Jon replied, stepping up to stand next to Pete.

Pete broke his silent war with Spencer long enough to turn and look at Jon. He studied Jon’s face for a long moment before speaking. “You’re in this somehow. I don’t know how, or why, but I can tell. You weren’t meant to be. So, for that, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Seriously, Pete, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Pete looked back at the stage, his face contorted in an expression that might have been a smirk or a grimace, Jon couldn’t tell in the low light. “I do what I need to do. I’m selfish enough to hope that, if you ever do get the whole story, you understand that.”

Pete walked away. Jon remained at the side of the stage for the rest of the song, watching Spencer watch Brendon.

***

Spencer found Jon outside of the buses the next day, the first time Spencer had initiated a conversation between the two of them in weeks. “I need to talk to you,” Spencer said softly. “Can we find someplace?”

Jon found himself nodding. “There’s a Starbucks around the corner, we could go there.”

Spencer shook his head. “Somewhere private. We can go get coffee, though, if you want.”

The venue was down the street from a small park – god bless California, Jon thought, for whatever its flaws its cities tended to be oddly un-city-like in some ways – so he and Spencer walked over with their lattes and sat on the ground, underneath a tree. The park was mostly deserted; it felt like spring to Jon, but the natives probably considered this the dead of winter. Jon sat cross-legged, while Spencer drew his knees to his chest, closed his eyes and breathed in the coffee. Jon watched his face; the steam from the beverage mingled with the blue puffs that seemed to drift off of his hair and eyelashes. When Spencer opened his eyes, he trained his gaze on Jon. Deliberately, Spencer raised his hand between the two of them. His fingers splayed out, and the blue swirls danced between them, curling up and down and eventually chasing itself around in a circle in the palm of Spencer’s hand. Jon stared at it. Spencer let out a breath. “You see.”

Jon looked up, feeling almost guilty. “I thought I was hallucinating for a while. But yeah, I see.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Not really.”

“But it doesn’t freak you out.”

Jon shrugged. “Sure it does. But, what was I supposed to do, tell everyone I can see you guys in weird colors? I figured anyone who didn’t already have a color following them around would think I was dropping acid or something.”

Spencer nodded, and narrowed his eyes at Jon. “Who all do you see?”

It sounded like a test. Jon scowled for a moment. “You, Brendon, Ryan. William. Siska, though his is really pale and might just be me making things up. Pete had one, too.” Jon fell silent, but then added, “And Brent. I saw his.”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, but Jon couldn’t figure out whether he was acknowledging the whole list or just Brent. “You see too much,” Spencer continued, after a long pause. “More than you should, I think.”

“I don’t understand jack shit, though. Are you going to explain it to me?” Spencer’s mouth twisted, and for a moment, Jon was sure the answer was going to be “no.” “Listen, dude, I don’t know what the hell is going on. I’m seeing impossible shit, okay, whatever, I’ve gotten used to it. But either let me into your weird little thing or don’t, I don’t need this teasing bullshit.”

Jon stood up, but Spencer touched his leg. “Sit. Please.” It sounded less like a plea and more like a royal command, but Jon sat anyway. He settled in slightly farther away from Spencer, though, and looked down at his coffee cup for a few moments before raising his glance to Spencer’s face.

Spencer took a breath. “I need your help,” he said. “Brendon’s in trouble.”

Jon nodded. “I heard. Sort of,” he clarified, when surprise flitted across Spencer’s face. “I heard part of it, when Pete was talking to you guys. What was that?”

Spencer abandoned his coffee and turned to face Jon completely. “That … was complicated.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to explain this to you. It’s so much harder,” he said softly, almost to himself, “to explain things these days.”

“These days?” Jon asked.

Spencer’s mouth spread in a tiny smile. “Okay. How old am I, Jon?”

“Eighteen. What the hell?”

Spencer shook his head. “I am … older. A lot older.”

“What?”

“When I was born …” Spencer trailed off and leaned back on his elbows. “When I was born, your country was still a shiny new playground for Europeans. My first journey into this world was on a ship sailing from England to the New World. We arrived in a colony that had been abandoned by its settlers. None of the humans ever knew what had happened. It was better that way.”

Jon stared at Spencer. He couldn’t be saying … that was impossible. “Humans.”

“You’re human. I’m not.”

Nothing on Spencer’s face indicated he was joking, but still … “Fuck you.” Jon stood up again. This was a joke. It had to be – in a minute, Spencer would start laughing and pointing, and maybe he’d tell William later, and everyone would laugh for a week about how gullible Jon was … “Fuck you,” he repeated, and started to walk away.

“Jon.” After only a few steps, Spencer’s hand was on Jon’s shoulder. “Stay. Listen. Please.”

When Jon turned back to face Spencer, he was enveloped in blue, in a cloud that contained only the two of them, not quite blocking out the rest of the world but making the park look hazy and distant. He looked up at Spencer – and for a moment, Jon indulged in a feeling of irritation that he was short, because somehow he didn’t think Spencer should be taller than him, not if he was eighteen, and he _was_ , dammit, he couldn’t be anything else – and saw eyes that had no whites, filled entirely with the same color as the cloud surrounding them. Spencer’s skin was bright enough to be almost translucent, and when Jon blinked, he suddenly saw something on the side of his head. A pale, pointed end stuck out from red-brown hair. “Is that … your ear? What are you, a fucking elf or something?”

The cloud dissipated, and Spencer put a hand to his head. The noise he made might have been a laugh, but Jon was a little too lightheaded to judge. “God, I fucking hate Tolkien,” Spencer muttered.

When Jon glanced at Spencer again, he looked perfectly normal. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

“That was me. For real.” Spencer sat back on the grass, and Jon joined him, as his legs weren’t giving him much hope for continued standing. “I am … an elf, if you want to be so crass. Fae is a better word. We’ve been called a lot of things over the years.”

“You’re a faerie.” The words sounded hollow to Jon, like a joke.

“In many and varied ways.” Now that was a joke, judging by the smile on Spencer’s face. Or maybe not. Jon didn’t really trust his own judgment any more.

“You’re …” Jon rubbed his eyes. “Okay, if this is a big prank, William or Brendon or Pete can jump out from behind the tree any time. I’ll take my lumps like a man, I’m easily fucked with, whatever. I just don’t want to deal with this stupidity any more.”

“Jon,” Spencer said softly.

When he looked back at Spencer – human-looking Spencer, with his blue swirls and eyes that shone a little brighter than they should – he remembered his Gran, her stories of fae and the monsters and magic. “God, how much is actually true?”

“How much of what?”

“Everything. Stories, fairy tales.”

“Ah. More than I’d like to be true.” Spencer scooted closer to Jon and picked his own coffee back up. “How much do you know? What stories do you know?”

“A few. My great-grandmother, she always claimed to have some kind of power, the Sight, she called it …”

Spencer nodded. “That explains so much.”

“What, is that why I can see you?”

“Partly, yeah.”

“Partly?”

“Never mind. That’s complicated – it’s a story for later.” Spencer waved a hand in the air. “For the moment, just assume that any story your grandmother told you was true, okay?”

“No, wait, hold up. I’m still … I’m back on the whole faerie thing. Because faeries don’t _exist_. They’re myths! You can’t be a faerie, because you exist.” The logic made sense to Jon, and he felt like hitting Spencer when he started to laugh.

“Okay,” Spencer said, “fine, I’m not a faerie. What am I, then?”

“I don’t know. I’ll buy you have some sort of freaky magic thing going on. I’ll believe that magic exists. Weird things can happen here on earth, to humans. I can get behind that. I see weird things with you guys, which can be magic. But you’re _human_ , because …” Jon shook his head. “You have to be.”

“Do you want me to start quoting Shakespeare at you? More things in heaven and earth, all that crap?”

“Shut up, you barely graduated high school.”

“Kiss my ass.” For a moment, Spencer looked like an irritated teenager, and Jon felt much better. But, then, he continued, “Ryan met Shakespeare once. I was Underhill at the time, but Ryan spent some time hanging out in England that century. I can’t get him to admit he had anything to do with _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , but I can totally tell.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Jon.” Spencer reached out and touched Jon’s shoulder. Jon forced himself to not jerk away – he was still freaked out, and there was a strange feeling of electricity on the skin underneath his t-shirt, where he could see the blue energy skittering across the fabric. “Please listen to me. I need you to believe me. You need to just accept all this and move on, because Brendon’s in trouble, and I need your help.”

Jon rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, Spencer was staring at him, blue eyes wide with sincerity. He decided to throw caution – and sanity – to the wind. “Okay. Okay, for the sake of argument, I’ll buy all of this bullshit. What’s wrong with Brendon?”

Spencer nodded, once. “Our world ... is very different from yours. The human world has changed so much, but our world never really does. That’s one of the reasons I like being here so much more.” Spencer drew his knees to his chest again, and for a moment, Jon once again believed he was just an eighteen-year-old boy. “We have a Queen – she’s been the Queen for longer than I’ve been alive, longer than my parents have been alive. Our world, Underhill, revolves around her. Everyone, everything exists for her enjoyment.” Spencer looked away, over Jon’s shoulder. “The thing is, everyone has a good time at the Queen’s Court, but no one ever does anything _new_. Most fae don’t know how to be creative. Creativity is magic to us, just as much as anything humans would consider extraordinary.”

“What can you do that I’d consider extraordinary?” Jon asked.

Spencer smiled. “Besides live for hundreds of years?”

“Point. Yeah, besides that.”

“All those things your great-grandmother told you, in stories, I could probably do.” Spencer pulled a handful of grass from the ground. “I could turn each blade into a gold coin, if I wanted – or better, they’d all turn into twenty dollar bills. But everything takes energy, which I don’t have an unlimited supply of. I could turn the grass into money, but I also require the same kind of energy to play onstage, so if I used it now I might, say, accidentally drop my glamour and show my true face when a spotlight is trained on me.”

“That wouldn’t necessarily be a disaster. You could always tell the press that your next tour is going to have a _Lord of the Rings_ theme. They’d totally buy it.”

Spencer laughed, which made Jon relax a little. Spencer’s laugh sounded like it always did, open and unforced. Jon liked being the cause of it. “Also, the twenty dollar bills would eventually turn back into grass. In this day and age, the police are really good at tracking down people they think should be in jail, so manufacturing money is just a bad idea all around.”

“Okay, so you’re not going to make me a millionaire. Got it. There’s one dream crushed.”

Spencer was still smiling, but it faded from his face as he brought the conversation back to the original topic. “Fae value creativity above all else. Boredom is our natural enemy – we live for so many years, but most of us have very little drive to go out and explore new things. The Court can sit and do nothing for decades, until finally someone decides to kill someone else just for fun. Wars are no fun for anyone, not once the killing starts in earnest.” Spencer looked serious enough that Jon smothered the laugh that bubbled up from his chest. Spencer continued, “Most fae couldn’t play a note of music if their lives depended on it. When one of us exhibits any kind of creative energy, we’re immediately sent here to the human world. It’s much easier to nurture that energy in a place so full of it.”

“Which place do you like better?” Jon asked, unable to resist.

Spencer just looked at him. Jon shrugged, conceding the point, and Spencer continued. “Our Queen … well, she’s the most powerful of us all.”

“Duh.”

Spencer flipped him off, a reassuringly human gesture. “The thing is, she gets a lot of her power by … using other fae. Humans sometimes, if they’re spectacularly gifted, but mostly only fae have the levels of power that she wants.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s like …” Spencer grinned. “If a human’s creative talent was a single potato chip, a fae’s creative talent would be a whole can of Pringles.”

Jon snorted a laugh at the analogy. “So, when you say she uses them, she …”

“Takes their energy. All of it. She always has a pet; when she’s done, whatever poor fae she’s drained is left in the care of their family. The discarded pet is useless – you’d be lucky to get monosyllabic conversation from them. It’s a better fate than when she picks a human, though. I’ve seen humans when she gets done with them.” Spencer didn’t shudder, but Jon saw something haunted in his eyes before he closed them, briefly. “Fae with creative energy are her favorites.”

“She gets to eat the whole can of chips?”

Spencer gave Jon a small smile. “Yeah, exactly like that.”

“So …” Jon prompted, after Spencer fell silent.

“So … the Queen is between pets. Brendon is next on her list.”

Jon blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Spencer leaned back on his elbows and looked at the sky. “She’ll make him go back Underhill. He’ll never come back to this world. He’ll be her constant companion, for as long as he lasts. And he’ll last a long time – he’s got an amazing amount of creative energy, more than almost any fae I’ve ever seen. But she’ll take that energy, slowly but surely …” Spencer sat back up and looked Jon in the eye. “You know that energy that follows him around? That gold shine? He won’t have that any more. He won’t have anything any more. He won’t be Brendon.”

Jon shifted his gaze to the grass. It was easier than meeting Spencer’s eyes. “That’s what Pete was here about.”

“Yeah.” This time, Spencer’s laugh was bitter. “Pete … works for the Queen. He plays his own games. Sometimes, they work for us. Sometimes they don’t.”

“I can’t believe Pete would just give Brendon over like that. Condemn him to …” Jon frowned. The Pete he knew loved all his friends enthusiastically, sometimes too enthusiastically; he was obnoxious and smart and incredibly loyal.

“Pete isn’t the person you think he is.”

“Neither are you.”

“True.” Spencer raked his hand through his hair again. “It’s not all Pete’s fault,” he admitted. “Brendon has been on the Queen’s radar for a long time now. He’s younger than me, younger than Ryan. He was presented to Court at a time when our creative pool was … shallow. He stood out. She’s remembered him for a long time now.” Spencer rolled his eyes, a self-deprecating gesture. “My creative abilities aren’t great. I don’t generally make a big impression unless I’m with Ryan. Which saved Ryan’s life, really.” Jon made a questioning face, but Spencer ignored him. “We’re very different here, in your world, than we are in ours.”

“I’m getting that.” Jon stretched his neck; he looked at the sky for a moment, brilliant blue with a scattering of puffy white clouds. A normal sky. Around him, a normal park. It was weird, to be having this conversation on such a normal day. He looked back at Spencer. “But Ryan’s not the one in trouble,” he prompted.

“No. No, Ryan’s family … isn’t good enough for her. Ryan’s got a lot of talent, but to use him would be slumming.” A thought flitted across Spencer’s face, but he didn’t speak it aloud. Jon thought it might amount to thank god.

“What about Brent?” Jon asked.

Spencer’s expression shifted slightly. “Brent isn’t that talented – he’s got enough to play, but as a pet, he wouldn’t last half as long as the talents she’s used to. I wouldn’t, either, really.” Spencer shrugged. “Besides, Brent’s family is part of the Queen’s inner circle. She assigned him to play with us – basically, he spies on us for her.” Spencer sighed. “Brendon, on the other hand, is from a good family, and has more creative talent in his little finger than the rest of her Court combined. He’s exactly the kind of pet she loves, the kind she only gets once every century or so. And apparently, now she’s going to get him.”

“In a week.” Jon flushed when Spencer stared at him. “I told you, I was kind of eavesdropping.”

“In a week,” Spencer acknowledged. “In a week, we’ll play our very last show. And then we’ll lose Brendon forever.” Spencer stared past Jon again, his eyes haunted. Suddenly, Jon wondered just how much worse “forever” seemed to someone who lived as long as Spencer claimed to have lived.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” Spencer’s gaze jerked back to Jon’s face, but Jon just exhaled and continued. “You brought me out here, told me all this bullshit – which, fuck me, I’m actually starting to believe – but first, you told me you needed my help. That tells me you have a plan to save Brendon, because I don’t think I’m the one you’d be going to if you needed help explaining to the world why Panic at the Disco suddenly dropped off the face of the earth.”

Spencer kept staring at him, unblinking. “What makes you think you’d be the one I’d come to for help with that, if I did have a plan? What makes you think you’re qualified?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? Talking to me? You said you need me. You said Brendon’s in trouble.”

Spencer continued to study Jon’s face. Jon forced himself to not look away, to meet Spencer’s gaze. Finally, Spencer nodded, as if to himself. “If I did have a plan, and I asked you to help, would you?”

The air around them seemed to still. Jon felt words bubbling up in his chest – “yes”, he wanted to say, wanted to pledge whatever help he could to Spencer. But, something in his brain kept the words out of his throat. Because, really, how crazy was all of this? Instead, Jon forced himself to say, “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

Spencer looked surprised. “I do have a plan,” he said. “Something that might save Brendon’s life. I can’t do it by myself, but I can’t ask Brendon or Ryan to help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dangerous.” Spencer looked at the sky. “Really fucking dangerous. You wouldn’t be entirely safe.” He chuckled humorlessly. “You could be killed, or worse.”

Jon hesitated. After looking at Spencer’s face, at his mouth set in a grim line, he asked, “Brendon, what he’s in for, that probably falls into the ‘or worse’ category, doesn’t it?” When Spencer nodded, Jon exhaled. “Dude, you’re asking me to believe a lot of bullshit here. What am I supposed to say here – yes, of course, I’ll agree to risk my life for someone I just met a few weeks ago? Just because someone else I don’t know that well says he’s not human? I’m still not sure I’m not dreaming this conversation. I don’t fucking know.”

They fell into a long silence. Spencer continued to study Jon’s face, as if he expected to find something written there. Jon tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, and took the opportunity to study Spencer’s face himself. He’d always taken Spencer’s roundness as a sign of his age, the lingering effects of baby fat, but now he saw planes and angles in that face that he hadn’t noticed before. His skin glowed, even now, even while he looked human, and Jon resisted the urge to reach up and run the back of his hand down Spencer’s cheek, just to feel it. Part of him thought that if he tried he’d draw back a bloody stump. Another part of him, the part that was watching Spencer’s eyes, that saw something hidden behind the impassive stare, wondered if Spencer’s reaction would be all together different.

The loud buzz of Jon’s phone broke the spell. Jon jumped, before rummaging around in the pocket of his jeans. “What?” he barked into the phone when he flipped it open.

“Dude. Where the fuck are you?” Tom sounded angry. “We’ve been looking all over the fucking venue!”

“Oh. Sorry, I, um, went out for coffee with Spencer. I guess we lost track of time.”

“You’re not getting paid to babysit the freakshow,” Tom informed him. “Get your ass back here and actually do some work.”

By the time Jon closed his phone, Spencer had stood up. He offered a hand to Jon, who took it and hauled himself to his feet. Before he let go of Spencer’s hand, however, he looked down. His own hand was tinged blue, with smoky curls drifting around their entwined fingers. “What is that, anyway?” Jon asked.

Spencer looked down, to see what he was looking at. When Jon looked up, Spencer was wearing a small smile. “It’s hard to explain. You might call it my soul.”

“Really?” Jon stood there for another moment, his hand locked with Spencer’s, watching the blue light dance. When he pulled away – somewhat reluctantly – he plastered a smirk on his face. “That’s kinda deep, man.” Spencer just raised an eyebrow at him and gestured back towards the venue.

When they reached the stage door – where Tom and William waited, frowning – Spencer leaned in to Jon. “Please think about it,” he murmured. “We need you.”

Jon felt a chill run down his spine when Spencer walked away.

***

After that night’s show, Jon found Brendon sitting on the ground behind his bus, staring off into the distance. Jon sat down next to him. “What are we looking at?”

Brendon didn’t turn his head. “Down there, outside the bar on the next block. Some drunk dude just got kicked out and is about to have his head bashed in by the thick-necked bouncer.”

Jon looked down the street, and sure enough, there was some sort of altercation happening, just loudly enough for him to make out angry voices. “That’s gonna hurt,” he observed, after seeing the barrel-chested bouncer shove the drunk patron to the ground.

“Poor guy,” Brendon said. “He was probably just having a good time. Doesn’t deserve to have some asshole with a bunch of power take him down.”

Brendon’s voice was laced with something darker than normal conversation, and Jon glanced sideways at him. “You okay?” he ventured.

This brought Brendon’s gaze to Jon’s face. “Fine,” Brendon said after a too-long pause. He laughed, a sound so sharp that Jon imagined someone somewhere bled. “If I said I was having a bad week, it’d be kind of like saying the Pacific was a pond in your backyard. But what the fuck can you do?” He looked back out at the street, his chin resting on his knees.

“Can I do anything to help?” Jon asked. Would Brendon ask him the same thing Spencer had? He didn’t even know if anyone else knew what Spencer had told him.

Brendon responded with another laugh, this one a bit softer, but still ugly. “You can pass over the joint I know you have in your pocket, is what you can do.”

Jon dug around in his pocket until he came up with the joint and a lighter. “Seriously, Brendon …” he said, watching the other boy light up. “If you want to talk about it …”

“No.” Brendon took a long drag, exhaling after a pause long enough to make Jon wonder if he ever had to breathe. “I wish this worked better than it does sometimes,” he muttered, staring at the smoke dissipating around him. “I wish it helped me forget.” The smoke mingled with the gold that followed Brendon around, which currently showed a far more muted color than Jon was used to. The red-gold aura that surrounded Brendon usually bounced with the same energy Brendon did; now that he was still and sullen, it pooled around his arms and legs, drifting listlessly. Jon was tempted to reach out and poke it, to see if it responded to him the way Spencer’s had, if he would feel the cloud in the same way. Instead, though, he balled his hand into a fist. It seemed an intrusion, in a way it somehow hadn’t with Spencer.

Jon fell silent, and they sat there for a long time, staring at the bar patrons walking down the street. Finally, Brendon sighed. “I like it here,” he said softly, almost inaudibly. “I don’t want to go.”

“So don’t,” Jon said automatically. Brendon jerked his head around, and Jon felt himself flush. “Don’t go anywhere.” Jon met Brendon’s eyes. “You don’t have to.”

“You don’t know anything, Jon Walker,” Brendon said sadly. “I kinda wish you did.”

“Me too,” Jon whispered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Spencer walk out of the venue. He saw Spencer pause to watch the two of them for a few minutes – maybe an hour, Jon lost track of time somewhere. Eventually, he walked onto the bus without comment. Jon was somehow disappointed.

***

Jon waited for three days. Three long days, during which he spent a lot of time watching Panic from afar; he was an outsider to their drama, he told himself. Besides, it was easier to take the dimming of Brendon’s personality when he wasn’t interacting with him – from enough distance, Jon couldn’t see the muted, almost sickly gold dangling around Brendon’s hands when he made the effort to talk normally to someone else on the tour. He didn’t have to watch Ryan’s violet turn nearly black, the only outward sign that Ryan was anything other than his usual reserved, disdainful self. Brent, for his part, seemed almost unaffected – his smoky gray aura flowed like normal, making Jon irrationally angry. The rest of his band seemed to be in mourning. It was only appropriate.

Well, perhaps Spencer wasn’t mourning, not quite yet. Jon didn’t see much of Spencer off-stage. He avoided Panic’s sets for the most part, choosing to sit instead in the green room and listen to William and Butcher shout over each other. He joined in the revelry occasionally, accepting the beer cans that were pressed into his hand and laughing appropriately at Mike’s imitations of groupies outside the venue the night before.

On the third night, Tom sat next to him and watched him quietly. “What are you thinking about in that thick skull?” he asked Jon finally, quietly, low enough that the rest of the room wouldn’t notice.

Jon shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Tom continued to stare. “What did you get yourself into?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t fuck around with me, man.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have fucked around with me,” Jon snapped.

Tom’s eyes widened, only a millimeter, but noticeable. “Be careful,” he murmured. “Be very, very careful.”

“It might be a little late for that,” Jon said, just as low. “Why didn’t you …”

“I couldn’t.” When Jon looked at him, hard, Tom spread his hands in his lap, a subtle gesture. “I really couldn’t. There are reasons … ways. I just hoped that you …”

At that moment, William decided to drape himself across Tom’s lap. Tom shoved him off onto the floor, starting a wrestling match that spilled Jon’s beer all over his jeans and caused the rest of the room to start hollering bets on the winner. When Jon could extricate himself, he left the room and walked to the stage, where Panic was finishing their set.

Jon couldn’t bear to look at Brendon, going through the motions, so he watched at Spencer as he drummed. Spencer’s blue aura was glowing as brightly as it ever had – brighter, maybe, with a cold edge that made it look like a gas flame, hard and dangerous. When he finally looked over at Jon, the blue flames shot long in every direction. It looked like Spencer was burning in the same cold heat Jon had noticed the first time he’d seen the colored auras. Jon felt an odd calm come over him. The more Spencer seemed to burn, the more at peace he felt. He couldn’t quite grasp it, but it kept him at the side of the stage until the four exited, applause echoing behind them.

When they passed by Jon, Spencer brought up the rear; Jon grabbed his arm. “We need to talk.”

Spencer looked at him gravely, and nodded.

***

Later that night, behind the bus, Jon stared at Spencer. “You know,” he said, almost conversationally, as if there wasn’t a tremble underneath his voice, “I did listen to a lot of my Gran’s stories. You told me that most of them were true –“

“In part,” Spencer interrupted. “They’ve been warped along the way.”

“Still. The main theme of those stories seemed to be ‘don’t fuck with the Faerie Queen’.”

Spencer nodded. “Always a good piece of advice.”

“Except for right now?”

“Desperate times, Jon.”

“Right.” Jon exhaled. “I’m out of my mind. For considering this, and even for believing you in the first place. You know that, right?”

“You might be.” Spencer looked sideways at him, the winter breeze – wintry for California, anyway – blowing his hair into his eyes. “You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Something shone in Spencer’s eyes, and Jon imagined that it was actually the ice-blue flames messing his hair, rather than the wind. “Good.”

***

Jon wasn’t surprised when William came to him the next day. “We’ve got a private gig tomorrow night,” he said. “Some kind of corporate thing the record label cooked up. They’ve got all their own techs, and they don’t want any photography, so you’ve got the night off.”

Jon just nodded and said something about drinking and California girls. William left him, but Tom lingered behind, looking hard at Jon. “Seriously,” Tom said, “take the night off.”

“Last time I checked, you weren’t my father.”

“Do you think this is a fucking joke?”

Jon looked at Tom, pale and serious, leaning in the doorway. “No,” Jon said slowly, “I’m pretty sure this is the least funny thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He thought it again – this was pretty much the exact opposite of a joke – later, when he was crouched just inside the door of Spencer and Ryan’s hotel room. Spencer stood above him, aura as calm and quiet as Jon had ever seen it. By the voices in the hallway, Jon could tell Ryan was already waiting with the rest of his band in the hall. “You know what to do?” Spencer said softly.

“Yeah, I think so.” Jon sat in the doorway of the bathroom, close enough to hear the voices outside, but far enough out of the way that no one in the hall would see him when Spencer opened the door. When Spencer put a hand on the doorknob, Jon cleared his throat. “Just checking,” he said, low enough that Spencer had to lean down to hear him, “I’m not walking into something stupid and embarrassing, am I? This isn’t some kind of big practical joke that you all are going to mock me about for the rest of eternity? Because I haven’t quite ruled out that possibility.”

Spencer’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Yes, you have.”

When the door closed behind Spencer, Jon allowed that he was probably right.

Jon waited until the voices outside the door had faded to almost nothing before standing up and cracking open the door. “The doorway will be built in someone’s hotel room, someplace private, where no one is likely to stumble across it,” Spencer had told him earlier. “I don’t know whose, so you’ll have to check them all.” He had pressed a small metal disc into Jon’s hand, approximately the size of his palm, smooth and shiny. When Jon closed his hand over it, he felt a small electric jolt. “That will open any hotel room door you want, just press it against the lock.” When Jon looked at him questioningly, Spencer had smirked. “No, I won’t explain it. And you have to give it back when you’re done.”

So Jon was stuck checking all of the tour’s rooms. Actually, that wasn’t true, he realized as he stood in the middle of the empty hallway. He’d heard the voices fading off to his right, he was sure of it, so he should start with the rooms in that direction. “Work quickly,” Spencer had told him, “the doorway will fade within minutes of the last person walking through.”

He had charmed a list of the tour’s room numbers from a friendly hotel clerk earlier in the day, so armed with a list and the metal disc, Jon began to open doors. He didn’t quite know what he was looking for. “You’ll know it when you see it,” was the only answer Spencer had given.

“That’s really helpful,” Jon muttered, when his foray into the third room – Mike and Butcher’s, judging by the clothes strewn everywhere – turned up nothing out of the ordinary.

He was starting to panic when he reached the end of the hall, and the last room on that floor – his own room, shared with Tom. He figured it would be a dead end; most of them thought Jon was in the dark, so they’d avoid allowing him to see their doorway, wouldn’t they? But he opened the door anyway and peered inside.

The entire far corner shone with a light bright enough to make him shield his eyes. “Shit,” he breathed.

Jon shoved the disc and the paper into his pocket and took a deep breath. Spencer had given him very brief advice about what to do when he found the doorway: “Just go, don’t think, don’t stop.”

He jumped onto the bed and, in the space of one step, hurled himself at the wall.

The next moment, he was somewhere else entirely.

His first visual impression was bathed entirely in white – white walls, white pillars, white floors, and space, so much space that he felt a little lost, like a speck of dust in the middle of the Milky Way. The pillars stretched high above his head, possibly fifty feet or more. When Jon’s gaze followed the length of one pillar, he saw what first looked like an intricately painted sky on the ceiling, like he’d last seen in the casino they visited. But, when his eyes adjusted, he realized that it was the sky, the color of twilight, blue and purple and pink, mixing sunlight and pinpricks of thousands of stars. The vast tangle of sky looked close to the ground, too close, so close that Jon felt dizzy. He closed his eyes and put a hand on one of the pillars to steady himself.

When he opened his eyes, he forced himself to look at the room and not at the sky. At that point, he realized he wasn’t alone; there were people close enough to notice him, if they looked in his direction. He cursed mentally and remembered Spencer’s next instructions. “You’ll be somewhat hidden – I can do that, at least, make it so that they don’t see you unless you make yourself known, but that means you can’t accidentally bump into anyone or ask for directions or anything like that.” He wasn’t quite sure what that meant – how was he hidden, anyway, standing out in the middle of the room? – so he plastered himself to the pillar as a pair of people walked in his direction. There was no place to hide, just pillars and floor and people. He held his breath and waited for them to pass.

As they approached, Jon realized they weren’t people at all – not human, but people like Spencer. Fae. They had colored auras swirling around their bodies, dancing and combining and floating upward until the colors melted into the low-hanging sky. Jon saw the pointed tip of an ear underneath the woman’s large, elaborate hat as she passed. Her male companion hung onto her arm, his skin glowing a translucent color Jon’s eyes had to adjust to. Neither one spared him a glance.

Gingerly, he stepped away from the pillar and turned in a slow circle, surveying the scene. He couldn’t tell where the room began or ended, whether there were doors to anywhere, or where any sort of central location would be. After a moment, though, he heard the faint sound of music from a seemingly faraway location. Exhaling, he stepped forward, in the direction of the music.

He quickly realized that Spencer had been correct; no one there could see him, not if he kept to himself. When he began to walk, partygoers were few and far between, and he could avoid them easily. However, the closer he got to the party – and a party was what it was, he could tell by the smiles and loud voices and more frantic movement he observed as he moved closer to the crowd – the more he found himself sidestepping bodies, walking in an indirect circle to avoid inadvertently touching anyone. Just because he didn’t understand how it worked didn’t mean he didn’t believe Spencer.

When he reached the edge of the party, Jon pressed himself to the far side of a pillar and watched. The people he saw – fae, all of them – were nothing like he’d ever seen before. Not even watching the tangle of color that Spencer, Brendon and Ryan produced could have prepared him for the rainbow riot that permeated the gathering. It felt like double vision; Jon’s senses told him that the multicolored fog he saw should be opaque, like early morning fog coming off of a lake. But, he saw everyone perfectly through the cloud, as if it didn’t exist. And the colors didn’t stop once he looked past the cloud. Everyone at the party was dressed in the most outrageous clothing, a hodgepodge of styles that combined to look entirely inhuman. The party seemed to rotate on a wheel, a synchronized calliope of dancing and talking and gesturing and watching, everyone watching and waiting and observing, even while they danced with abandon. Unconsciously, Jon flatted himself farther against the pillar, wishing to remain invisible to the entire room.

He looked around the crowd. At one end was a small stage; Jon recognized the instruments laid out as Panic’s. No one stood on the stage yet, so he let his gaze wander to the other side of the gathering. He saw a raised platform containing elaborately carved wooden seats, sat at just the right height for those sitting in them to observe the entire party. The largest seat – throne, Jon thought – was yet unoccupied, as were several of the chairs closest to it, but a handful of seats were already taken. Jon looked at all of them, but his gaze froze on the one closest to his own position, a male sprawled elegantly, watching the crowd with lazy brown eyes, bright orange swirls licking the ink displayed on his forearms. Pete.

Jon had never known Pete to be an observer; the Pete he knew always threw himself into the middle of any party he found, ruled it by the time anyone else had thought to check. However, the Pete he knew was also human – or so he’d thought, sometime that now seemed long ago – so this quiet, still Pete was definitely not the biggest shock he’d had in the past week. The look in his eyes, though, was pure Pete; a mask of indifference, not quite hiding a sharpness that noticed everything happening around him. Jon shrunk to the opposite side of his pillar, as far away from Pete as he could physically get. He had the strange feeling that Pete would notice him, strange invisibility spell or not. Whether Pete would interfere in Jon’s task, he didn’t know. He didn’t feel like finding out.

He tore his gaze away from Pete and swept the room again. He didn’t recognize anyone else – none of the guys he’d followed were visible, which worried him. But, as he stared across at a knot of bodies that were either dancing or fucking, it was hard to tell at that distance, he suddenly heard the chiming of a bell … or, less heard it than felt it, deep in his chest, with a reverberation that made him feel momentarily like he was going to puke up his long-ago lunch. (And that might be a little conspicuous, unless his puke was also invisible, which he doubted.) Thankfully, the vibration faded to nothing, and when Jon looked out from behind his pillar again, he saw that the crowd of fae had stilled completely, and were now looking in the direction of the platform.

A figure had appeared, standing in front of the throne. Her hair was jet black, long and loose, and she wore a flowing white dress that was assembled so intricately that Jon couldn’t tell where one piece of fabric ended and another began. It clung to her curves like vinyl, however, displaying the most perfect female form he’d ever seen. Even from the distance Jon observed from, she seemed tall, taller than anyone else in the room. Her skin was a glowing shade of ivory, with sharp facial features that would have marked her as inhuman, even if her ears didn’t show, or if the deep, true purple aura didn’t blaze out behind her like dark angel wings. She didn’t have to wear a crown for Jon to name her as the Queen. This woman didn’t need cheap jewelry to mark her power; she wore it like armor.

She stood utterly still for what seemed like forever. Jon couldn’t tear his eyes from her. He only looked at her face twice, though; the second time, he looked at her eyes, light-colored and fathomless, and without warning Jon’s eyes jerked down, away from the icy color that reminded him too much of the color of the smoke that curled around his own hands when Spencer was close to him, down to the curve of her waist and her long fingers, knotted together placidly in front of her as she accepted the hungry regard of her subjects. Yet, he couldn’t look away from her entirely.

Finally, she sat down, and Jon felt something in the air around his head pop, silently. He blinked and looked around again, at last. The crowd began moving again, slow and restless. When he looked to the side of the platform again, Pete was still standing, eyes on his Queen’s face, still wearing the mask of indifference. His eyes glittered, though, with a look that could mean either fascination or disdain. Jon couldn’t read it well enough to tell the difference.

Slowly, noise began to filter back in – low chatter, nothing like the decadent party that had been rolling before the Queen entered. Jon still saw no evidence of his friends, and he began to worry. What if he was too late? What if the event – whatever it was – had already happened, and Brendon was trapped? The longer Jon remained, the more alone he felt.

Two male fae sat on either side of her; on her right side, a tall, willowy blond who looked as inhuman as his Queen, all sharp angles and unnatural stillness. On her left, though, sat a fae whose skin looked ashen gray, a strong contrast to the brilliant health of everyone around him. His sand-colored hair hung limply around his face, and his breath seemed to be labored. He stared into the crowd as if he didn’t see anything in front of him at all. The only thing that shone about him was the gold necklace that hung around his neck – it was a heavy link chain, with a triangular pendant hanging down his chest. The pendant was bright gold, with a cutout in the center in the shape of a keyhole. As Jon watched, the fae raised a limp hand to the pendant and touched it gingerly.

The Queen turned to him and stroked a long finger down his cheek. His gaze finally focused, and he stared into her eyes as if he looked into the sun. Her lips moved; thanks to several years working in an atmosphere of loud music and too little time to spare for shouting in someone’s ear, Jon could read her words. “Patience, my pet,” she said, and the ashen fae shuddered.

In a heartbeat, Jon knew – this was to be Brendon’s fate. He thought about it, about Brendon’s energy fading until he was a gray-skinned zombie, and he grasped the pillar so hard he saw white lines appear around his knuckles.

Time seemed to go on forever, but yet it seemed like only a breath later when the Queen spoke loud enough to carry across the room. “Where is my entertainment?”

Everyone turned their attention turned towards the stage, and Jon followed suit. The members of Panic! at the Disco stood onstage – they’d appeared when Jon wasn’t looking. Brendon stood at the front, back ramrod straight and face impassive, his hand on the microphone stand and eyes staring into nothing. Ryan’s gaze was downcast, his hand gripping his guitar hard enough that Jon was sure the strings would leave permanent welts in his fingers. Brent shifted from one foot to another, regarding the Queen with the same sort of worship as the rest of the crowd. Spencer sat behind the drum kit, also looking at the Queen, but his stare held less wonder and more challenge. Jon wondered if the Queen noticed, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn his head to see.

Spencer tapped his drumsticks together to count the band in, and then there was music. Jon wondered briefly if their usual songs about teenaged angst would play to this very different crowd, but the minute Brendon opened his mouth for the opening lines of “Martyrdom”, everything about the performance seemed perfect. Brendon’s voice echoed through the open chamber; the sound almost took on a physical form. Jon imagined the sound leaving Brendon’s body on gusts of red-gold and winding around the crowd, caressing everyone in turn, then changing into a flurry of sharp pinpricks as the song changed and new lyrics spoke of anger and bitterness. Usually, Jon saw Brendon’s stage presence as that of an actor, portraying the person Ryan had wished he’d been when he scribbled lyrics in some forgotten notebook. This time, though, it was as though every word was Brendon’s, as if they all lived every syllable.

Later, Jon couldn’t say how many songs they’d played, or for how long, just that he’d been unable to look away from the stage as long as the music lasted. When the last note faded, though, he saw four faces staring out at the throne with varying degrees of concern knitted into their brows. Brent seemed the calmest, but he was taken aback by the fact that Brendon looked nearly as quiet. It was as if Brendon had accepted what was to come. Jon’s throat tightened, and he nodded to himself.

“Come.” The Queen’s voice commanded the room again. Only Brendon responded – perhaps he was the only one meant to. The crowd parted as he walked from the stage to the throne. Jon thought it resembled a funeral march, especially after sneaking a look at the expressions of those left on stage. Brent looked regretful, while Ryan and Spencer both held hard looks in their eyes; they’d look stony to an outsider, but Jon had come to know both of them well enough to see the pain and anger bubbling underneath.

Brendon walked slowly, deliberately, but all too soon he stood on the platform in front of the Queen, looking at her face, but not her eyes, Jon noted as he inched closer to the throne. The Queen held out her hand to the ashen fae on her left. The unknown fae nodded, a look that might have been relief spreading across his face. He slid out of his seat and knelt on the floor in front of her, his back to the Queen. She reached out to him and caressed his hair in an oddly intimate gesture. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You’ve served me well.” Her fingers dropped to the clasp of the gold pendant, and she unfastened it. She reached around to grasp the triangle before it slid down his chest. Once she had the necklace in her hand, the fae’s eye’s brightened, flaring life for one brilliant second before he slid to the floor in a heap. No one in the room reacted, save a guard who had been lurking, unseen by Jon, near the edge of the platform. The guard walked over, picked up the now unconscious fae and carried him off. When Jon looked around the room, no one seemed to be watching the guard or the ashen fae. All eyes were locked on Brendon, who now stared at the pendant in the Queen’s hands with fear in his eyes.

“You have been chosen,” the Queen said to Brendon, dangling the pendant from her fingers. “You are strong, little one, more talented than anyone I’ve had in quite some time. It will be a pleasure to have you by my side.”

Brendon said nothing, just continued to stare at the pendant with wide eyes. Jon snuck forward even farther, his heart pounding in his chest as he reached the stairs that led up to the throne. He looked around. No one saw him, not even Pete, who was mere feet away from him. Pete, like everyone else, stared at Brendon, his face betraying only a small hint of sadness that separated him from everyone else on the platform, all of whom simply looked enthralled. Maybe even a little bit hungry. Jon tried not to think about that.

Jon focused by remembering Spencer’s instructions.

(“She’ll have a necklace. If she gets it around Brendon’s neck, then it’s all over, we’ve lost. You have to prevent that from happening.”

“How do I do that? I’m not magic or anything, I’m pretty sure the Faerie Queen could kick my ass without breaking a nail.”

“Undoubtedly. Just get between the Queen and Brendon, and ask what I’ve told you to ask. The rest will take care of itself.”)

Jon had no idea what Spencer meant, but he did know that chickening out would mean Brendon someday sitting in that chair next to the Queen, all life drained from him, waiting for release. That wasn’t an acceptable outcome, not without a fight.

Jon stopped thinking and ran up the stairs. He wasn’t noticed until he stood in front of the Queen, with Brendon at his back. He heard the moment everyone saw him – heard Brendon’s sharp intake of breath, the surprised murmur of the crowd. He saw the Queen’s shock, a startlingly human expression that morphed quickly into a rage that made his muscles feel like jelly. Before she could open her mouth or raise a hand, however, he spoke. Spencer hadn’t told him precisely how to ask, so Jon’s words came out in an inarticulate rush. “What are you going to do to Brendon?”

The gasp from the crowd would have sounded comical, if the Queen hadn’t stood up like a shot, towering over Jon. Her dark aura clouded over him, covering him and causing his vision to swim in raging violet. “A human,” she spat, grabbing Jon by the shirt and hauling him up to her height. His legs dangled almost a foot from the ground, and his collar began to choke him. “You have no right to ask that of me. Get out of my sight.”

She tossed Jon to the side as if he weighed nothing at all. He barely felt the air whistling around him before his body crunched into the wooden floor. He thought dazedly of broken bones, concussions, pain and suffering and god, he’d failed Brendon, and Spencer …

Until he realized he’d rolled to his feet without thinking about it. He looked down at his own body, his brain registering facts without really processing them. He stood up, without any discernable pain in his left side. His clothing, meanwhile, had … changed, somehow, from the white t-shirt and jeans he’d worn in the hotel to an elaborate suit, styled like almost everyone else in the room; his was icy blue in color. On his chest, he saw a gold shield design he vaguely remembered. He searched his brain before he finally remembered where he’d seen it before. Spencer’s t-shirt, gold and flames melding to form what looked like a coat of arms … he’d first noticed it the day the fan appeared.

She’d tried to warn him, he knew now.

When he looked up again, Spencer stood halfway between him and the Queen. He spared Jon the briefest of glances before facing the Queen. She stared at Spencer with a malice that should have made anyone drop to their knees, but Spencer stood tall. “He has every right, Your Highness. He belongs to me.”

The Queen flicked a glance over Spencer’s shoulder, taking in Jon’s new clothing. Jon steeled himself against the disdain he could feel burning off of her. “A knight,” she said, disbelieving. “You have never taken a knight before, young lordling. Why should I believe that you have one now?”

“Do you believe it’s a trick, Your Highness? Did I somehow counterfeit my own shield?” Spencer gestured backwards. The Queen once again looked briefly at Jon, and he imagined he could feel the strange symbol – the shield, Spencer’s shield - burning into his chest.

Jon opened his mouth – to speak, or to gulp in the air it seemed like his lungs currently missed, he didn’t know – but a hand on his shoulder stopped whatever he was about to do. “Shut up,” Pete hissed harshly in his ear. Jon hadn’t heard him come up behind him, but then again, at this point he probably could have been overtaken by an army without hearing a sound. “Just listen, for the love of god.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut. Beyond Spencer and the Queen, he could see Ryan and Brent walking up the stairs. Ryan placed himself squarely beside Spencer. Brendon stood on Spencer’s other side, closest to the Queen but with his eyes trained on Spencer’s face, as if searching for answers. Brent gave a regretful look to his band mates before moving into the small group of fae standing behind the Queen. The lines were drawn.

Spencer spoke again. “He gave his oath. He passed the three tests. He wears my family crest. He is a knight, he is mine, and you have offered him grave offense.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Jon heard Pete breathe the question behind him. Jon was just as lost. A knight? Him? He hadn’t …

Maybe he had. That day, after he’d run the (perhaps not so) crazy fan off, Spencer had spoken to him, words he hadn’t heard since his Gran had told him stories as a child. He’d responded in kind, as a joke.

 _“By wind and fire, earth and sea, I ask you pledge your life to me.”_

 _“Ocean and flame, land and sky, I swear my oath until I die.”_

Bonding words, and then three tests - honor _(the gloves, he’d given Ryan the gloves back, even after he knew they were the reason he won)_ , selflessness _(Spencer’s face, shocked, after Jon gave Brendon his dinner for no good reason)_ , and courage – and, well, stepping in front of the Faerie Queen had either been courage or stupidity, Jon would accept either answer.

“Shit,” he said under his breath. He was a knight. Spencer’s knight. He hadn’t exactly planned that.

Spencer finally looked back at him. His eyes were unreadable. Jon felt his shoulders and back straighten, and he met Spencer’s gaze without flinching. Something that might have been the ghost of a smile passed over Spencer’s face before he turned back to the Queen. “As a knight, Jon had the right to ask you to declare your intentions. You offered him grave offense,” he repeated. “And in this case, the rules are the same, for both Queen and subjects.”

The Queen’s expression changed only minutely, but the subtle shift in her brows and mouth made Jon want to take a large step backwards, to run from her reach. He forced himself to stay still with great effort. Pete’s hand, light on his back, helped. He didn’t know what game Spencer played now. “The rules are the same,” she acknowledged, in a voice so cold that Jon wondered how Spencer didn’t freeze on the spot.

“If he prevails,” Spencer said, “then my house is owed a boon. Agreed?”

The Queen simply nodded. She gestured to the blond fae who still stood by her side. “Erik stands as my champion, now and always. Your knight can stand for himself. He may choose the method of battle.”

This time, the sound of the question came up in Jon’s throat, but it was once again stopped when Pete grabbed his arm, hard enough to bruise. “A duel,” Pete hissed. “You have to fight a duel against good old Erik over there. God, if Spencer had a fucking plan, it would have been nice if he’d let you in on it, seriously.” His irritation was so plain, so _normal_ that Jon found himself relaxing, just a bit.

Except, wait … a duel?

Jon stared at the fae – Erik – who now stepped forward, ignoring Spencer in favor of staring back at Jon. Erik probably stood a more than half a foot taller than Jon. He wore a long sword at his side, the kind of sword Jon had only seen when he’d been talked into getting drunk and wandering through the Renaissance Festival a couple of years earlier. It didn’t matter what weapon they used, this guy could probably pound Jon into the ground without breaking a sweat. Jon wasn’t particularly a fighter, pretty much ever.

In that moment, as Erik looked him up and down, Jon was pretty sure he was going to die.

The Queen looked at him, her eerie eyes focused, unblinking, on Jon’s face. “Name the method of battle, young knight,” she said. “The choice is yours.”

He felt Pete step back, away from him, but he heard Pete’s voice, soft on the air behind him. “Choose your instrument, Walker.”

That was helpful, Jon thought irritably. At least he got to choose the way he died? A sword might be quick, or maybe pistols – did faeries have pistols? Maybe he could last long enough to run away if he went hand-to-hand … but, a glance at Spencer – who watched him with an expression that looked serene, until he noticed the agitated leaps the blue aura made around his eyes - reminded him of what was at stake. He cleared his throat, thinking furiously. “Do I have any limitations?” he asked, and was proud to hear his voice sound strong and clear.

He had his answer when he saw Spencer shake his head slightly, but the Queen answered. “None, young knight. The offense was offered to you –“ wow, Jon thought, maybe Ryan had learned his sarcasm skills straight from the source, because that was the driest voice he’d ever heard – “so you choose the contest. Erik will best you in anything.”

The last wasn’t a boast, just fact, as far as Jon could tell. Seriously, if Spencer was hundreds of years old, chances were that Erik was, as well, and therefore had probably had time to master every weapon there was. Probably every game in the world, too – Jon suppressed a hysterical laugh as he remembered _Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey_, his brother’s favorite movie when they were kids. Maybe if he challenged good old Erik to a game of Twister? Battleship? If it worked for Bill and Ted …

… except. _Choose your instrument_ , Pete had said. Perhaps the word choice wasn’t accidental. He heard Spencer’s voice in his head. _“Most fae couldn’t play a note of music if their lives depended on it.”_

“Guitar!” he blurted, before he could think any farther. “I choose the guitar.”

Spencer’s face remained inscrutable, as did Ryan’s, but Brendon’s expression relaxed minutely. Jon felt triumphant for a brief moment – maybe he’d chosen right! - before looking at the Queen, who appeared as if she’d rather smite Jon in his tracks than look at him. “Very well,” she said, dripping ice with every word. “Someone bring the guitars, and we will begin.”

Someone brought two acoustic guitars from the direction of the stage – Siska, he noticed after he took the guitar from his hands. Siska was dressed in the same sort of stylized clothing as every other fae, and his pointed ears poked straight through his unruly hair. Jon nodded his thanks, and Siska gave him a half smile and furtive thumbs up. Guitar in hand, Jon worried for a brief second – he could play the guitar, but not as well as the bass, but he hadn’t thought that particular fact through when he spoke – but he played a passable version of “Here Comes The Sun” when all was said and done. Nothing special to his ears, but when he looked up, everyone in the crowd (with the exception of the Queen and Erik) was staring at him with something akin to rapture on their faces. The final note of the song echoed through the room long after it should have died; Jon felt dizzy, as energy skimmed underneath his skin. He tried not to tremble, and filed the feeling away in the back of his head.

There was no applause; once the music faded, Jon was overwhelmed with silence. Gazes shifted from Jon to Erik. Jon snuck a look at the Queen, who sat on her throne, her mouth forming a hard line. His stomach flipped over as he remembered more of his great-grandmother’s stories. The Faerie Queen almost never played fair, by human standards. Jon understood very little of what was going on here – what if he’d missed some important point? What if Erik turned out to be one of the rare fae musicians? If he lost, what happened to him? Brendon would belong to the Queen, obviously, but somehow Jon didn’t think the Queen was going to let him walk away from this, either.

A glance at Spencer didn’t help. Spencer’s expression was impassive; behind him, Ryan’s lips twitched as if he wanted to sneer at Erik, while Brendon had schooled his face into a wide-eyed blank stare. Spencer’s eyes slid over to meet Jon’s for a moment. Jon felt his chest tighten. Hopefully he hadn’t let them down.

When Erik picked up his guitar, Jon felt the air rush out of his lungs for a moment. But, then Erik wrapped an inelegant fist around the guitar neck, and Jon breathed again. Erik didn’t even know how to play a chord. He gave what was probably a valiant effort, strumming hard enough to acquit himself in a death metal band, but none of the sounds he made even remotely resembled music. As he played, Jon looked over to Spencer and couldn’t keep a small smirk from playing across his face. Spencer favored him with a small quirk of his lips, not quite a smile, but something like amusement. For a moment, Jon felt entirely normal.

Then, the music stopped, and the Queen stepped forward. Her face was stony, and Jon felt his heart seize in his chest when she captured his gaze. After a long pause, she executed an elegant head bob in Jon’s direction. “Congratulations, clever knight. You’ve won your master a boon.” She turned back to Spencer. “Name your boon. But know that, if you remove your friend from my service-“ she nodded at Brendon – “I will only choose another. Perhaps one just as close to you.” Her gaze lingered on Ryan for a long moment, before she finally stepped back up onto the platform and sat on her throne. “What is your wish, young lord?”

Spencer was silent for a long time. Jon stood in his place off of the platform, in front of the crowd. Behind him, the gathered fae began to get restless, murmuring questions to each other as Spencer stared at the Queen. Brendon and Ryan stood on either side of Spencer, gazing forward, but both snuck looks at Spencer when they thought no one else was looking. On the other side of the platform, Pete had sprawled in his seat again; he watched the Queen and Spencer, his expression marking him as the most unconcerned spectator in the room. Jon didn’t buy it.

When Spencer finally spoke, it was in a voice loud enough to carry across the entire crowd. “Your Highness, I ask that you take Brent, instead of Brendon.”

Jon gaped. Ryan and Brendon stared openly at Spencer. So did Brent - who Jon had all but forgotten – from his place in the middle of the Queen’s supporters. The Queen’s eyes widened in shock, and she pursed her lips. Spencer stood without moving, without reacting. He refused to look at anyone but the Queen.

The Queen held up the gold pendant, still dangling from her fingers. She looked hard at Spencer, then at Brendon. “You may have your reprieve,” she said quietly. Jon shivered at the low sound. She leaned forward and swung the pendant back and forth. Brendon stared at it as if he was being hypnotized. “But I will tell you this: do not find comfort. You will return here soon, when I am once again hungry, and I will taste you. I will have every bit of you. Do you understand?”

Brendon’s answer – “Yes, Your Highness” – came in a strangled whisper, and was nearly lost in the hum of the crowd behind Jon.

“Leave me,” the Queen said, waving her hand. “All of you, out of my sight. And fear the next time I see any of you.”

Jon didn’t need to be told twice. When Spencer turned to walk down the stairs, Jon looked at his face. His eyes were cold, nearly as cold as the Queen’s gaze, and Jon froze. But, then, Spencer looked at him, and the blue aura that had been nearly still during the entire conversation moved, as if in a breeze, and curled close to Jon as Spencer walked past. Jon followed the blue, and Spencer, falling into step next to Ryan. Brendon walked next to Spencer. Jon had the impression of a hierarchy, but damned if he was going to figure it out right then.

When Jon snuck a look backwards, he saw Brent kneeling beside the Queen’s throne. He saw a glint of gold in the Queen’s hands. Ahead of him, Brendon inhaled loudly – out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Brendon jerk his gaze forward, away from Brent and the Queen. Jon turned his eyes back to Spencer’s back before he saw any more.

***

“Why?” Jon asked, days later.

They sat on the Panic bus – Jon’s bus, now. (“We seem to have an opening in our band,” Ryan had said, as calm as ever. “Want to step in?” It didn’t sound like a request to Jon. Even if it had been, he wouldn’t – couldn’t - have said no.)

He and Spencer sat at the table in the kitchen. Jon had been staring at absolutely nothing – he’d been concentrating hard on not thinking too much about recent events lately, because once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop – before he’d spoken. He wasn’t sure why he asked. The question was entirely unconscious, and he didn’t actually know he’d spoken aloud until Spencer answered him. “There are a lot of answers to that question, Jon, you’ll have to be more specific.”

Spencer sounded tired. He’d held his head high all the way back through the doorway, back into the hotel and the real world, and then he’d gone to his hotel room and hadn’t emerged until soundcheck the next day. When Jon saw him the next day, he looked entirely human, with black smudges under his eyes and a slouched posture.

Jon thought for a moment more. He finally settled on, “Why Brent?”

Spencer blinked. The corner of his mouth turned up into a sneer that Jon suspected was directed more at himself than at anyone else. “Because it had to be someone.” In that moment, Spencer sounded so much like Pete had, sharp and sad. Jon reached across the table without thinking, brushing the back of Spencer’s hand with his fingertips. Spencer’s eyes widened, but his mouth relaxed, and he turned his palm upward just long enough to touch Jon’s hand. For a second, Jon thought that Spencer might grab his hand, but then Spencer withdrew his hand and carded it through his hair, sighing.

They remained quiet. Jon listened to the noise from the back of the bus – a song on Guitar Hero, Brendon yelling gleefully at Ryan during the game. So many normal sounds. The only noise in the kitchen, however, was the sound of Jon’s fingers drumming lightly on the table. He nodded, finally. “So, what happens the next time?”

He heard Spencer sigh next to him. “I don’t know.”

“How long?”

Spencer understood that question. “Brent isn’t as talented as her last pet. He won’t last as long. So, maybe a few years, by your calendar?”

Jon thought of the ashen-faced fae from the Queen’s court. How many years had he been forced to sit at her side? He chose not to ask; some things, he wasn’t ready to hear.

He looked down at his t-shirt – Spencer’s t-shirt, actually, the one adorned with the gold shield Jon still felt burning into his chest when he dreamed. He’d grabbed it from Spencer’s suitcase when he moved onto the Panic bus. It felt like his, now. When he looked up, Spencer was studying his face intently. Jon stretched his arms over his head. “You want something to drink? I’m fucking parched.”

He made a move to push himself to his feet, but Spencer’s hand on top of his own stopped him. “Jon.”

“What?”

“I thought you’d have other questions.” When Jon looked over, Spencer’s expression was more vulnerable than he’d seen in a long time – since before this stupid mess started, he supposed.

Jon had a million questions. What did it mean to be a knight? To be Spencer’s knight? How much of his life was his own any more? How dangerous was it? He looked down at Spencer’s hand, which had inched up to curl halfway around Jon’s forearm, and watched blue tendrils wrap around his skin in a shy embrace. They scurried away when Jon tried stroking them lightly with his fingertip. Spencer drew in a sharp breath at the gesture.

Jon put his other hand over Spencer’s briefly. “I guess I’ve got time to ask them, don’t I?”

Jon’s hand was engulfed in blue. The smile that spread across Spencer’s face was genuine. “Yeah, you kind of do.”

It wasn’t happily ever after, but maybe, Jon thought as he grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, ‘happily for now’ was the best ending a story could hope for.


End file.
